


Collective Hearts

by feralphoenix



Category: Yggdra Union
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-28
Updated: 2012-05-28
Packaged: 2017-11-06 04:03:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They four live in the borderlands when the war has ended; exile ended, yet exiled still.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Collective Hearts

**Author's Note:**

> _(following the rise and fall of another land._ – hearts battered by rain)

When you were still quite small, your grandfather woke you and your parents up in the middle of the night, and behind him in the doorframe was the prince. You rubbed your face, dizzy still with dreaming, and squinted in protest at the bright light that the prince held.

“Father, what is it so late?” There was a quaver in your mother’s voice as she spoke, and that did not ring right with you, for she was always the stern and unshakeable one, steadfast as any mountain.

Your grandfather’s face was already lined even then, his hair beginning to go white, and he took your parents’ hands one by one, then touched your forehead with gentle steady fingers.

“Pack your things,” he said in a resigned sort of tone: “we have to go.”

“I will stall them for as long as I can,” said the prince, and he frowned. The golden moustache he was in the process of growing made his expression seem especially severe. “And I am sorry that it has come to this; if not for my indiscretion—”

“It’s all right, Highness,” your grandfather interrupted. “His Majesty and the court wouldn’t have wanted to hear what I had to say anyway.”

 

-           -           -

 

Your grandfather is old now, and the effort of moving back to the kingdom after the war has put a terrible strain on his health. Even though he has always been the most persnickety and stubborn person you’ve ever known, he has gone grim and he has gone wan, spending most of his time lying in bed and staring over the windowsill at the green grass outside, and the lake beyond.

He lifts a hand one afternoon, and you gather up your skirts and walk to his bedside: He places his hand on your cheek.

“Mistel,” he says, “lass, there are days that I believe this is my punishment for opening my damned mouth in that meeting without thinking.”

This makes you want to frown, but you suppress it as you take his hand in both of your own. He’s been so strange of late, has your grandfather—he’s always been far too proud to even admit that he has regrets at all, let alone share them with you apropos of nothing.

“You _were_ thinking, Grandfather,” you say to him. “You were the only one who _was_ thinking, and it’s truly sad, yes, but we all know that things would have been much different if the late King had agreed to your proposal.”

Your grandfather closes his eyes and lets out a long breath. When he looks at you again his eyes are sharp and clear.

“It’s not that there was anything wrong with the plan. Goodness knows that so much trouble would have been averted for the kingdom if Ordene hadn’t spoken up when he had, and the court gotten all het up over my loyalty being to the people first. No, mistle thrush; I made the plan for the wrong reasons entirely.

“I was at least thinking of the empire at all, but it should have been for the empire’s sake first and foremost. If someone, anyone, had been able to do that—well, your lad with the red hair might not have wound up like this.”

He falls silent, and his gaze drifts back to the window. You release his hand and clasp yours on your apron and you turn.

There is a youth outside, sitting in the grass with hands folded in his lap: A half-conscious doll of a boy with empty eyes. All that remains of the proud ruler of a ruined country. Knelt behind him is the queen’s stray angel, wrists dripping with bracelets and eyelids fluttering over empty sockets, braiding a carpet of flowers into that long hair. It is one of the few ways to keep him calm, and a feat only Nessiah can manage: Should anyone else even raise a hand as if to touch his hair, Gulcasa will at best cower away.

At worst, he will scream: And things die when he screams, burnt into wraiths of ash and smoke and out of existence entirely. Other than this, he will not speak. Nary a word has left his lips in over three years.

“If the world were kinder,” your grandfather mumbles, “or if less of it were under Fantasinia’s arm.”

He has closed his eyes and is breathing evenly by the time you turn back towards him, and you pull the covers back over his chest, smooth them out.


End file.
